


All That’s Left Are Our Bloodlines

by sewerpigeon



Series: But the Burn Wanted More [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Dalish Elves, Developing Relationship, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dyslexia, Feelings, Height Differences, Homesickness, Insecurity, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Stargazing, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon
Summary: [continued from part 2]...Dorian had gone and gotten ahead of his own blighted self.  Now he found himself treading deep water with the Inquisitor, and he expected there to come a point where he would either have to wade back to shore or plunge forward and swim.  For now, it was all he could do just to keep his head above water....Eris wished he was better at reading people.  As a hunter with his clan, he understood by heart the mannerisms of usual prey, of how to work with or against them for the most efficient trappings and killings.  But people—Dorian—were less instinctual, more calculated, and Eris didn’t dare assume anything.  Not yet.  Maybe he could learn in time—if he would ever be given the time.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: But the Burn Wanted More [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800511
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work is part of a chronological series! it’s not necessary, but you can start at the beginning [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882511/chapters/60202660)!

There was a muted surrealism for Dorian to be standing amidst a Dalish camp. He was fascinated in the way anyone would be when encountering a foreign culture for the first time, and he longed to more intimately familiarize himself with the engineering of the aravels, but he also felt uncharacteristically sheepish. He was self-conscious under the wary glances of the elves—he couldn’t shake the neurotic suspicion they knew of Dorian’s origins with just a look and might be coming to their own conclusions. He supposed now was as good a time as any to be thankful the Inquisitor was Dalish, for it inspired at least some degree of warm reception.

However, even Eris was not above suspicion. “You may be Dalish,” the Keeper had said, “but your Inquisition is human, and we do not know your intentions.”

“We cannot trade with those we cannot trust,” the craftsworker further iterated. “In time, perhaps.”

The words had stung Eris. He’d done an admirable job at maintaining composure, nodding in accepting comprehension, but Dorian had been watching him the whole time; he’d caught the slight shifts in Eris’s posture, the twitch in his expression—a smarting reminder Eris was no longer of the People as he once was. Dorian thought it a bit unfair, the way they seemed to regard Eris as though his time among humans had somehow _tainted_ him, nullified his bloodline. He could not wholly begrudge them their mistrust—after all, strangers were strangers—but still Dorian had to remind himself it was not his place to come to Eris’s defense in a situation like this.

It did not dissuade Eris from offering his and the Inquisition’s services, and as hindered as the clan had become by the war-torn Exalted Plains—supplies low, aravels damaged, halla missing—they did not refuse the help. It was not from a place of personal gain for Eris, that much Dorian knew; he was helping the clan out of kinsmanship, not because he needed their help in return.

As the day wore on, Eris and his friends continued running honest errands alongside the elves. The clan gradually warmed to their presence, and by evening had grown rather companionable. Keeper Hawen too warmed but maintained his guard—respectably enough, as any protector would have felt equally compelled to—even as he welcomed the four of them to share the camp for the night.

Small fires at either side of the camp were populated in chattering groups; the hunters Eris and the others had encountered earlier had returned with a good catch and were roasting them as conversation carried on. Dorian and Cassandra were sore thumbs amongst it all—at least Cole had the advantage of making himself unnoticed. The typical oil-and-water compatibility between Dorian and the Seeker at least found footing for temporary camaraderie as outsiders—it was a discomfort not unlike that of being a guest at someone else’s family reunion. 

Dorian hid behind his mug of complementary sweetwater. It paired well with the herbs used on the roasted hares, the meat prepared with the prowess of long practice. The taste of the meal was more subtle than the rich, encompassing flavor-ballets Dorian remembered from Tevinter, but it was a taste that showed the Dalish knew how to not only get by on whatever resources were available, but how to make those flavors play together to meet their fullest potential.

Tepid notes from a wooden flute began to lift into the night air, accompanied by a stringed instrument looking something like a lute-adjacent around the farthest fire. Sharing their meal more to the wayside of the elves, Dorian and Cassandra watched Eris assume a certain airyness that neither could remember seeing from him in his time as Inquisitor. His posture was relaxed, his laugh easy as the tongue of his people rolled from his lips like water from a duck’s feathers. Dorian was enraptured.

“He is comfortable with them,” Cassandra commented, pulling Dorian from his observant reverie. Her own steely features were softened for once in the low light, thankful on the Inquisitor’s behalf for this reprieve. “I am ashamed not to have considered how lonely he must truly be.”

“There is a certain loneliness that is characteristic of the Inquisition as a whole,” Dorian replied sagely. “But he doesn’t complain.” Dorian kept his tone passive, but he knew equally well the ache that came from having strayed far from the only people and life one had ever known, whether by force or by choice—or by forced choice.

“Does he talk to you about it?” Cassandra peeled away her gaze to address Dorian directly. 

Dorian stiffened, bracing, but there was nothing conspiratorial in her tone as she clarified, “He seems to enjoy spending time with you. I just wondered if he ever spoke of his life from before.”

It was sweet the way this jagged woman revealed her delicate side in her compassion for the Inquisitor. She had the charming awkwardness of someone who didn’t have the best people skills but had the best intentions. Dorian gave a half-hearted shrug. “He’s mentioned it occasionally; he misses his clan but doesn’t believe he can ever go back.”

“Laughing, longing, lost,” Cole intimated; Dorian couldn’t remember him joining them, but he couldn’t seem to remember him having ever left either. “The hurt tastes like honey. The words are safe like home, and he remembers, always remembering, but this doesn’t belong to him anymore.”

Cassandra and Dorian absorbed this morsel in sympathetic silence as they returned their attentions to Eris. Dorian’s elvish was crude at best, and he could catch only a word here and there, but there was a certain music to the way the language ebbed and flowed between the elves. To watch Eris speak in his own tongue was like watching someone singing; there was a certain vulnerability to it, a demand of inherent openness that was liberating for Eris, but even at this distance Dorian could see now his eyes were sad.

“I suppose I will take to the tent early tonight,” Cassandra said, rising from their shared seat several paces from the nearest fire. “I would like to compare our maps with the information the Dalish have shared with us of this area to prepare more detailed reports for our stations here.”

They bid each other good night, Dorian bowing in farewell as best as he could sitting down as the Seeker crossed the camp. The elves had spared a tent of theirs which Dorian and Eris agreed Cassandra could have to herself; the weather was clear, and they would join the ranks of the Dalish rolling their mats out under the stars—not Dorian’s ideal circumstance, but he was peaceable enough about accommodating. As for Cole, Dorian was fairly certain the spirit-boy didn’t require sleep in the same way the others did; he would likely spend the night lingering around people’s dreams, easing nightmares or something.

With Cassandra gone from his side, Dorian’s only remaining company were his thoughts, and they were decidedly less preferable. Eris had hardly spared his companions a glance all evening. Dorian did not fault him for this, but he did begin to wonder just how much Eris felt he had to conceal as Inquisitor. Dorian was seeing firsthand a glimpse of the version of himself Eris had had to leave behind; he’d participated in a sliver of the life Eris had once lived, and to watch him be at such ease here even with a clan not his own, befriending these elves who only just this morning refused to trust him for the company he kept, it set Dorian’s mind racing.

Eris never seemed particularly excited by his responsibility as Inquisitor, and he, like everyone else, had moments of lament—even if his had to be practiced with more discretion—but he had never been woeful or inconsiderate. He wasn’t as selfish as some others might have been in his position, but seeing Eris here, like this, Dorian had to wonder if he harbored any resent.

Dorian could not deny his own selfishness in wondering; by now the Inquisition had settled in well enough that report after request after inquiry had been pouring into Skyhold, and Eris had all but joined the likes of Cole in phantomhood for as scarce as he’d become. Dorian and Eris had hardly had the time to even _talk_ since that first kiss in the library.

Admittedly, perhaps it made their fleeting rendezvous all the sweeter—they would be flitting about the keep, tucking into alcoves and slipping behind doorways, stealing kisses like hungry urchins might steal pastries cooling on a baker’s windowsill. It was practically juvenile, the way they rushed to hide stupid grins and stifle boyish laughter just beyond the periphery of the Inquisition’s ever-wandering eyes. The chaste discretion lent itself to the excitement, however; something about teasing indulgence but denying it in full left a pleasantly frustrating fire zipping through Dorian’s veins each time.

But Dorian had been nervous about more than just “getting caught.” Light as his heart would feel, this was a precarious matter, if only for the Inquisitor’s sake. His reputation mattered, whether Eris agreed or not, and Dorian would be loath to tarnish it single-handedly, undermining the success and trust Eris had gained thus far. His own self-preservation too gave him pause. Dorian had not exactly been in the habit of expecting anything from feelings like this. He found himself suspended about the Inquisitor, Dorian’s desire for Eris caught in a civil war of the mind between conditioned reasoning and newfound freedoms. He was no longer in Tevinter; he was allowed to _want._ But Maker, if that freedom wasn’t as terrifying as anything.

Now here, seeing Eris like this, Dorian felt… small. He wondered if he was being foolish—more foolish than kissing the Inquisitor might have been in the first place. He had been unable to stop himself from seeing Eris as someone… _more._ But just how did Eris see him? What did he see _in_ him? Did he share the same reservations as these Dalish here? How far was he planning to take this, with Dorian, a human—of Tevinter, no less? It could all be meaningless to him. It could be nothing more than fun, a means of passing time and making the stresses of his job more bearable. Maybe he didn’t see this going anywhere at all once the fun was had.

There would be nothing wrong with that, but Dorian had gone and gotten ahead of his own blighted self. Now he found himself treading deep water with the Inquisitor, and he expected there to come a point where he would either have to wade back to shore or plunge forward and swim. For now, it was all he could do just to keep his head above water.

Thinking about it certainly didn’t help. If anything, the more Dorian thought about it, the higher the stakes seemed to become. This didn’t have to be anything—it might very well be for the best if it was nothing. Dorian didn’t need to dignify his own insecurities; he would enjoy it for what it was while it lasted, however briefly that may be, and then he could at the very least look back with a smug sense of accomplishment as if crossing something off his bucket list: sleep with the Herald of Andraste? Check. Next: remedy his homeland, shapeshift into a dragon, turn water to wine... not necessarily in that order.

Try as he might to minimize it, Dorian still cowed at such a train of thoughts the moment Eris finally returned his gaze from across the way, smiling and raising a clay decanter and two mismatched wooden cups to carry with him as he made his way over to Dorian’s side.

“So what pearls of thought are forming in that pretty head of yours?” Eris asked as he filled and handed Dorian one of the mugs.

He instantly recognized the aroma of the mysterious beverage they had shared a couple of weeks ago in the Hinterlands. The light was low and Dorian couldn’t determine how flush the Inquisitor’s face might be, but he exuded a greater warmth and ease, apparently having already imbibed a cup or two of the stuff—he wasn’t quite drunk, as the words that fell languidly from his mouth still carried a sharpness to them that would erode the more intoxicated he became.

“Whatever do you mean?” Dorian indulged, graciously accepting the proffered mug.

“Oh, come on: your first time stepping foot in a Dalish camp after a life of only knowing elves as butlers and street cleaners. Surely they’ve made some impression.”

“I’m more impressed by the impression they’ve made on _you,”_ Dorian replied, cracking a warm smile of his own. “I didn’t know you had the capacity to be at such ease.”

Eris’s expression faltered, self-conscious now, and he tucked a nervous smirk into his drink. He swallowed, nodding in relent as he returned his gaze to the elves throughout the camp. “I wanted to thank you,” Eris said, a subtle somberness inking its way into his voice, “you and Cassandra for… We didn’t have to stay and help them. I know it took us out of our way.”

Dorian tilted his head, slightly perplexed. “That’s what the Inquisition is for, no? Besides,” he added good-humoredly, “you _are_ the boss.”

Eris scoffed. “That certainly shouldn’t—and hasn’t—stopped any of you from objecting before.”

“All the more evidence we were happy to do it. We probably would have had to listen to Cole recite each of their inner agonies otherwise, anyway.”

“They aren’t my clan, I know that,” Eris said, defending himself against an imaginary argument Dorian hadn’t made. “And they’re right; I’m not really… one of them anymore.”

“You don’t really believe that, surely?” Dorian interrupted.

“Not in the way I was. Not in a way I can ever be again.” He was matter-of-fact about it; he’d accepted this a long time ago. “But it was... nice—to remember, just for a little while.”

Dorian paused, transfixed by the elf’s face even as it was still turned away from him, gaze falling toward the flames of the nearest fire. He didn’t intend for his voice to come out as softly as it did. “Then it was worth it.”

Eris looked back to him with the hint of a smile, inquiring, but Dorian quickly salvaged his lackadaisical air and added, “If only to indulge once more in… whatever this is,” he said, hoisting his cup. “So it’s Dalish, is it?”

Eris’s smile expanded, and he took a sip of his own drink in affirmation. “Perhaps it’s crude compared to whatever exotic, hundred-year-old vineyard delicacies you’re used to, but we find it does the job just fine. Mostly we just refer to it as ‘nettlesweet,’ but in more… _informal_ circles it’s known as _‘daurnathaan garun’.”_

“Sounds poetic,” Dorian mused, lifting the cup to his mouth. “What does it mean?” Dorian took a drink.

“‘Wyvern cum’.”

Dorian spit his drink.

Eris’s laugh rang with open mirth, bubbling out of him like the chatter of a stream; it was a sound that filled the air like wind filling the sails of a ship long stranded in a dead sea. Even as Dorian questioned whether his upper nasal passages had been wholly incinerated, he found himself chuckling in turn.

“You do realize,” he threatened merrily, dabbing at his chin and pointing to the cup, “I’m going to have to kill you for this.”

“It’s not _actually,”_ Eris reassured him with a patronizing pat on the shoulder. His laughter tapered but still lit up his face. “I mean, it is _called_ that, but just because it’s made with a certain species of nettle that’s prepared in a very particular way that salvages the venom and turns it into something that can be safely and enjoyably indulged. That’s why it sort of tingles like mint.”

“Venom? So _you’re_ trying to kill _me.”_

“Nonsense; I wouldn’t use poison. Far less personal, and not nearly as satisfying.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I find it’s best to be prepared.”

“And what would your preferred method of extermination be for one so irreplaceable as myself?”

“Well, I’m not going to _tell_ you; that would take all the fun out of the surprise.”

“You are a sick little man, you know that?” Dorian said, feeling a little stupid from the alcohol and a lot stupid from this dreadful creature’s presence beside him, so close now their knees were touching.

“And yet you’re still on my side,” Eris retorted, simpering. “What does that say about you?”

“Perhaps that I’ve a better stomach for poison than I thought.”

Eris smiled, a low-burning warmth behind it as he brought his free hand up to gently trace the line of Dorian’s jaw. Dorian had to resist sinking into the touch; a thumb ghosted over his lip, and Eris urged Dorian to lean closer. “You missed a spot,” he breathed, using his own mouth to taste away a stray droplet of liqeur.

The breath-warmed taste of the nettlesweet on both their lips was heady, their amused smiles fading to deepen the kiss. Dorian breathed in the veil of aromas Eris had accumulated throughout the day—campfire smoke, river water, native flora—adorning his usual underlying scent, an aura of wildness that pricked Dorian’s tongue as well as any nettle.

Perhaps he should have eaten more; it seemed the drink was hitting him hard. A sudden flush sprawled over Dorian’s skin, and his mind was nothing but vapor as he sat his mug behind him to cup Eris’s jaw. He could have gotten lost in the taste, the depth, the closeness, the little contented exhale that tickled Dorian’s face as Eris returned his search, but he remembered himself when a soft swell of laughter rose from one of the elves’ conversations across the camp.

Dorian pulled away with the willingness of a burr from wool, striving to assume some sense of composure. He nodded toward the other elves. “Shouldn’t you be worried they’ll throw us out, brand you as ‘ruined’ for dallying with a dreadful _shem?”_

Eris tilted his head, expression inscrutable, still dangerously within Dorian’s reach. “Is that what you’re worried about, Master Pavus? Ruining me?”

There was a coquettish angle to his features, in the husk of his voice, but Dorian could see in his eyes the question was more than just ribbing. His appraisal was almost meticulous as Eris withdrew to right his posture. Perhaps the question was rhetorical either way, but Dorian was beginning to feel oddly exposed, and he would have preferred they’d just kept kissing.

All at once he felt the drain of the day’s expenses pull him downward, and Dorian too straightened in his seat. “I think it’s time we grant ourselves some beauty sleep; I should think Cassandra would like to set off at first light.”

Eris blinked, holding his gaze a moment longer before nodding his assent. They rose to replace the now-empty decanter and cups and bid the elves still awake good night before making their way to their bedrolls, spread next to the spare tent into which Cassandra had retired. A boulder served as a natural headboard, and the ground in its shadow was deceptively soft. Dorian only had to brush aside a few jagged bits of gravel before pulling the blanket up to his hips. Eris made no such effort, lying directly on top of the mat, looking straight up at the sky. Their view was only moderately obscured by the thin branches of the great tree standing guard at the northwest edge of the camp.

“I imagine your stories for them are different,” Eris said ponderously, his own exhaustion draining the sprightly edge to his tone. Dorian rolled his head to look at him. Eris gestured skyward, the deep blue velvet of night swathed in the peppered gossamer of starlight and galaxies. “Tell me about the ones you see.”

Dorian looked again to the stars above, trying to dust the cobwebs of his astronomy trivia as he calculated the approximate time and which stars should be where. “Well,” he began, pointing, “there is Fervanis, the Oak.” Eris shifted his position closer to Dorian so as to better follow the path Dorian’s hand traced to illustrate the constellation. “Some scholars believe it’s a harkening to Tevinter’s nature-worshipping ancestors; others actually think it was originally a representation of your Goddess of the Hunt.”

Eris hummed, contemplating for a moment before tracing the same lines in the air as Dorian had, both index fingers mirroring the other’s movements to draw three jagged lines. With each downstroke, Eris recited, _“Vir Assan; Vir Bor’assan; Vir Adahlen.”_

He must have seen Dorian’s inquiring look from the corner of his eye as he explained, “The three tenets of _Vir Tanadhal_ —the Dalish teach it to their hunters to remember to respect nature and be resolute in purpose.” Eris again indicated the constellation. “It’s taught in the spirit of Andruil; I can see how the stars might come from that.”

Dorian digested this insight; no one could have any sure evidence of the origins for the constellations as Tevinter knew them. The stories were ages old. But it reminded Dorian how hard his homeland had always striven not to dignify elvenkind with any accreditation even with something as harmless as the stories for their stars. It seemed the longer he was around Eris the more often Dorian had to let go of much of what the Imperium had insisted was true. It was humbling, but in a way that was necessary—a way that Dorian valued and hoped could someday be shared with his countrymen.

Though weariness began to strain his eyes as Dorian pointed out more stars, his chest filled with a gentle warmth, for something so simple as stargazing was something he had not done in a very long time; and to share what he knew behind them, Eris listening in earnest, it was enough to help Dorian forget what awaited them come morning, what awaited back at Skyhold, at Crestwood, and beyond. This was the most he’d allowed himself to be in the _right now_ possibly since leaving Tevinter.

He kept trying to drift off—it was very likely he had actually stopped speaking for a while by now. For the third time he caught himself; the sound of deepened breathing caused him to turn his head to see Eris asleep, having rolled onto his side toward Dorian in a loose fetal position, one arm bent under his head to serve as a pillow—that was probably going to be stiff in the morning. Only then did Dorian finally allow himself to be encompassed in the tendrils of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Eris rose from his desk, finishing up reports with his personal scribe—Josephine had been most delicate in suggesting such a position be filled for Eris after admitting she’d had to retranscribe some of his outgoing letters. Embarrassed by this problem he never had to worry about while living with the Dalish—a problem he didn't even realize _was_ a problem until coming into the Inquisition—Eris had agreed it was faster and less labor-intensive to have someone else do most of the reading and writing for him. All he had to do was practice his signature. 

There was an expected level of discomfort at first, but soon enough he and the scribe, a dwarf named Hestrid, fell into a good rhythm, and Eris found his job becoming marginally less stressful. Hestrid was good company as well, clever and upbeat but not one to sacrifice efficiency for amiability. They were Eris’s senior by about a twenty-year margin, their features beginning to maintain creases from a life full of both laughter and concentration. By this point, Hestrid was so familiar with the communications coming in and out of Skyhold that they had become a valued consultant as well as a scribe.

Caught up well enough on paperwork to call it quits, Hestrid began gathering their inkwell and quill and sheaves of parchment and folios; the contents of the latter Eris could scarcely recall at this point. He escorted Hestrid down the stairwell, still littered with carpentry tools and old plans that by this point Eris assumed it was intentional decor. What did he know about interior design? He’d grown used to it anyway.

The stained glass in the main hall was incandescent with the late afternoon sun, the stone floor blooming with dappled kaleidoscope patterns of light. Eris and Hestrid had only just bid their warm farewells for the day before the hushed footfalls of one of Leliana’s agents came gliding over to his side. “Message for ya, Your Worship.”

Eris accepted the scrap of parchment and managed to catch Hestrid’s eyes as they had turned at the herald’s words. A silent exchange passed between them quickly, and Hestrid did an about-face to stand in the spot the messenger had now vacated. Eris’s ears warmed; it wasn’t necessarily a _secret_ that the Inquisitor needed a little extra time for reading and writing, but surrounded by all these bookish, astute minds, Eris maintained a self-conscious sense of inferiority to some degree because of it, and he wasn’t happy to acknowledge it more often than he had to.

He opened the note handed to him and Hestrid read aloud—Eris tried to follow along:

_One of our soldiers spotted Dorian in a, how shall I say “heated debate” with a man outside Skyhold. I investigated, worried it might have some connection to the Venatori, but this doesn’t seem to be the case. The man is a merchant from Val Royeaux, Ponchard de Lieux; he possesses an amulet which Dorian was attempting to purchase. I am uncertain why they argued, but if you wish to investigate further, I’ll leave the matter in your hands. —Leliana_

Hestrid cocked a mischievous eyebrow at Eris. His ears grew ever warmer, but Hestrid politely left him to his business without a word. Knowing what the note said now, he discreetly tried to skim over it again in some vague attempt to perhaps file away what these words looked for later before proceeding toward the stairwell ascending into the rotunda harboring Skyhold’s library.

Sure enough he found Dorian in his usual haunt, and Eris’s chest filled with that uncomfortable heat that always stifled his next breath at the sight of him. The feeling caught him off-guard every time—he wasn’t entirely sure if it was a good or bad thing. 

The rigid set of Dorian’s shoulders and the anxious bouncing of his leg implied this argument with the vendor had been even more recent than Leliana’s message had suggested—Eris was grateful to have such an elite team of agents for the Inquisition, but even after all this time he still managed to be caught off-guard by his spymaster’s almost eerie degree of efficiency.

“Busy?” Eris said by way of greeting over Dorian’s shoulder. His approach was undisguised, but Dorian was so absorbed in his task he started anyway. Eris offered an apologetic smile before turning to face him, leaning into the edge of the table.

Dorian’s reception was distracted, his own greeting a preoccupied smile that relented into a warmer regard. He sighed, gaze falling to appraise his work once more. “No more than you, I’m sure.”

Eris slipped into the chair opposite Dorian and lazily began flipping through one of the tomes stacked around the work table. He didn’t even try bothering to focus on the contents; it was something for his hands to do. He was careful not to lose any if the places Dorian had marked. “So what’s this about an amulet?”

Dorian’s attention was drawn upward again, more alert. His face creased in bewilderment. “How did you hear about that?”

Eris shrugged, glancing up toward the open floor of the rookery. “A little birdy told me.”

Dorian scoffed. “Of course she would find out. It’s—Don’t make an issue of it. It’s my problem, and I can take care of it myself.”

“What is it?” Eris queried, shifting to be more comfortable in his seat.

“The Pavus Birthright,” Dorian unveiled after a pause, “the flashy thing you show peons to make them tremble at your impressive lineage. I didn’t leave Tevinter with much in the way of coin, so I sold it. Entirely forbidden, of course, and foolish, but I was desperate. I’ll figure something out,” he added quickly.

“What does this de Lieux want for it? We could—” 

“No.” The refusal was short and sharp.

Eris raised his eyebrows, taken slightly aback. “No?”

Dorian sighed. “I don’t need someone else solving my personal problems for me. I am the one who sold it, and I will be the one to get it back.”

Eris didn’t quite understand. “Dorian, if this is important to you, I would be happy to—”

“It’s important to me that I _do it myself,”_ Dorian insisted tersely. He then relaxed a bit, clarifying apologetically, “I may not have your resources, but I can’t ask you to—” He grimaced. “You already have a million people asking you for everything under the sun. I won’t be one of them.”

Eris considered a soft rebuttal, wanting to assure Dorian he didn’t need to feel bad about asking him for help, but the mage’s tone was firm and decided. “Alright,” he submitted softly, placating. He felt guilty for bringing it up—Dorian clearly hadn’t intended for him to know. A subsequent beat of moderate awkwardness passed between them, Dorian’s gaze fixed firmly on his paperwork and Eris gnawing on his bottom lip as he sought to change the subject.

“Well,” he said finally, “perhaps you can help _me,_ then. Josephine insists I be the one to make a decision with regards to our uniforms for Halamshiral, but—and this may come as a shock to you—I haven’t got the slightest idea when it comes to _fashion.”_ He couldn’t help drawling the last word with a laugh; with the Dalish, clothing was almost entirely utilitarian. Sure, some aesthetic preferences might be employed in certain facets such as shapes of hemlines, homages to the Creators, different braid styles for belts... But ultimately it needed only to serve as two things: camouflage and protection. When Eris had first arrived in Orlais, the ruffles and masks and boisterous patterns he’d seen the nobles sporting were so outlandish they left him speechless. All he could think was, _They’d better hope they never have to run in that._ He recognized it was a mere matter of differences in culture, but Eris couldn’t deny the juxtaposition of such differences was nearly comical.

This drew a smile from Dorian as if he were thinking something similar. “I was afraid to say something myself, but I have noticed your tastes are a little… austere,” he ribbed.

“Since when are _you_ afraid to say anything?” Eris mirrored the smile and shrugged good-humoredly. “So, I’m a bit of a fixer-upper, just like everything else here at Skyhold.”

“I suppose I can appreciate the consistency. The Inquisitor must represent his Inquisition accurately, after all.”

“Precisely,” Eris enthused facetiously, standing to leave Dorian to his present work. “The ambassador is having swatches sent to my quarters later this evening; if you’re so inclined, you can join us after dinner.” Lowering his voice more earnestly, he added, “It would truly be a mercy.”

Dorian bowed his head in assent. The small fire that burned so brightly behind the mage’s eyes gained fresh breath after his prior frustration regarding the amulet. Eris departed, feeling weirdly proud of himself.

* * *

“Shoulders back, darling, we need these measurements to be precise.” Vivienne’s pointed instructions were collected in her usual cool, certain authority. She directed Eris’s microscopic movements to accommodate the accompanying ministrations of the Orlesian tailor, long-nailed fingers prodding and jerking and nudging him as if he were a crooked painting on the wall. Something about it made him feel like a child, but he tried to maintain good humor among the tedious agony. It wasn’t until a sharp, succinct rapping at the door drew all their attentions that Eris began to feel any sense of relief as he bid Dorian permission to enter.

“For Andraste’s sake, are you sending him to the palace as a distinguished guest or as the court jester?” Dorian remarked with a grin, taking in the sad sight of the Inquisitor: draped in fabrics of varying patterns and lengths and textures, pins fastening in place the thin cloth meant to form the sewing pattern, measuring cords and clips and other bits and bobs decorating Eris like an unkempt coat rack and making him appear even smaller than normal as he swam amongst the materials.

“Not to worry, my dear,” greeted Vivienne with a catty twinkle in her eye, “once we finalize the design for the Inquisition’s uniform, you’re next on the list for measurements.”

“Luckily, I’m here to speed the process along,” Dorian smirked. He addressed the tailor: “For starters, you’ll save everyone time by not even entertaining the notion of that cheap cotton. This is the Herald of Andraste, not some stable boy between jobs.”

“Unfortunately, darling, we are quite subject to what is currently at our disposal,” Vivienne rued. “We’re simply too short on time to send requests to import any _proper_ fabrics.”

Dorian said cheerily, “Well, if the Inquisition is good for anything, it’s _making due.”_

“Quite—Although that _hemline_ will never do, my dear,” she said to Eris, “you haven’t the height for it.” She lamented, “If only _my_ seamstress hadn’t chosen this very week to visit family. The Inquisition could use an expert’s eye—no offense, dear, you’ll do just fine,” she tacked on to placate the present seamstress, who buried her frown deeper in her focus.

Eris’s face contorted into greater discomfort; he’d invited Dorian in the hopes of making this debacle less painful, but now he couldn’t tell if the mage was being performative or if he was actually taking this with as much sincerity as Madame de Fer. They appraised Eris in tandem, again making him feel like some sort of piece of art on display, and not in a flattering way. He winced as a pin jabbed into his thigh. He shot Dorian a pathetic look, hoping it effectively screamed, _Help me._

Clearly amused but merciful, Dorian’s smile widened, and he strode over to the spread of swatches across Eris’s stupidly large bed, selecting a few to toss aside.

“I was leaning toward the ring velvet for the sash,” Vivienne commented, her graceful gait circling Eris as the tailor readjusted, “but I’m wondering if it’s just this lighting that has me reconsidering the Highever weave.”

“I’m reconsidering attendance,” Eris muttered. 

“Nonsense, you’ll look dashing in this darker blue here.” Dorian held the fabric in front of him, looking over it toward Eris to better gauge whatever he was envisioning. “But more importantly, _I_ will look good in this darker blue. Not that that’s ever a challenge for me. And this here,” he added, lunging to retrieve a silk sample to hold next to the blue fabric now draped over his arm, “wouldn’t you say this adds the perfect accent?”

Vivienne hummed, all business. “Perhaps we should revisit the sketches. I’ve just had an idea. Glad to see you’re capable of providing _some_ benefit to the Inquisition, darling.”

“Yes, well, feel free to make public whatever it is _you’re_ contributing, Madame; we _are_ on a bit of a crunch.”

Eris sighed; he did not think this through, subjecting himself to the scrutiny of the two people in the entire Inquisition with the greatest taste for the finer things while they entertained themselves with dispassionate insults to one another. He supposed he could view this more positively, considering it a sort of bonding opportunity for members of his inner circle, at only the cost of whatever modicum of dignity he might have had before this evening.

“Can I take this off?” Eris risked, flapping his arms uselessly inside the swaths of material as Vivienne turned to depart with the tailor in tow.

The two didn’t even bother sparing him a glance as they said in firm unison, “No,” and Eris’s chamber door banged shut behind them.

Dorian remained at the Inquisitor’s side, and Eris looked at him askance, albeit with little honest dismay behind it. 

“Lucky we’re not doing this in the courtyard,” said Dorian. “Cassandra might mistake you for one of her training dummies.”

Eris rolled his eyes. “You’re fired,” he deadpanned, amused in spite of himself.

“Come now,” Dorian said, still smiling as he moved to stand in front of Eris, “as the face of a movement you’ll need to learn to take pride in your appearance.”

“Apparently, I have you, Vivienne, and Josephine to take pride in it _for_ me.”

“All the more reason for me to have a little fun with it.”

“Do you think Corypheus will be expecting as much pomp and circumstance?”

“Well, if I know magisters, appearances are everything.”

Eris mused, nervously shifting his posture to avoid any unnecessary pokes from pins, trying to keep measurements in place for when the tailor returned. “Perhaps I should invest in my own red lyrium accoutrements.” 

Dorian tutted. “If you must, but do try to hold off; you’ve got such a pretty mind. I’d hate to see it devoured before I’ve finished picking through it.”

Eris swallowed. He wished he was better at reading people. As a hunter with his clan, he understood by heart the mannerisms of usual prey, of how to work with or against them for the most efficient trappings and killings. But people—Dorian—were less instinctual, more calculated, and Eris didn’t dare assume anything. Not yet. Maybe he could learn in time—if he would ever be given the time. “I’m surprised you Tevinters developed time magic before mind-reading magic,” he jested weakly. 

“I assure you,” Dorian laughed, “traveling between the planes of our existing universe would prove far easier than ever trying to infiltrate the mental defenses of the alti and magisters. Besides,” he said, waving a dismissive hand, “I have Cole for that now, should it prove necessary.”

A short respite passed between them, a cold mountain breeze considerately slipping through the cracked balcony doors to loosely wrap Eris in its refreshing wisps. The talk of red lyrium and time magic had the horrible images he’d seen at Redcliffe resurfacing in his mind’s eye: the crystals consuming Fiona, his companions’ death sentences, Leliana’s sacrifice…

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly, not quite meeting Dorian’s eyes. “The red future?”

Dorian caught on to the shift in mood, his mouth setting firmly but the rest of his countenance betraying no more tension than that. “No,” he said simply, “because it isn’t going to happen. What do you think all this ‘pomp and circumstance’ is working toward?”

While his tone wasn’t exactly reprimanding, Eris still felt chastised. Shouldn’t he be more confident in their mission by now, in his abilities as Inquisitor and in the Inquisition itself? He shrugged. “I understand that, I just…” He considered his words for a moment before looking to Dorian once more, the mage’s eyes not having once strayed from him. “You’re always so sure,” he said with a breathy chuckle of disbelief. “How?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows inquisitively. “Am I?”

“Well, if not, you’re good at pretending, and I could certainly use some lessons either way.” Eris felt his shoulders deflate fractionally as he added more inwardly, “I don’t think I’ve ever been sure of anything in my life. Some days I can’t even go without second-guessing what I had for breakfast.”

“That’s why you have advisors, a council. And as for breakfast, I suggest you make it a rule to avoid Cabot’s meat pies at all costs.”

“Noted,” Eris responded with a faint laugh, not entirely untainted by his despondence.

Dorian began circling Eris in languid strides, apparently examining again the strange ragdoll, patchwork amalgamation that currently adorned the Inquisitor like he was a pack mule and these were his haphazard wares. Eris grew even more self-conscious, but Dorian’s tone was sympathetic, as he began fiddling with different positionings of buttons and layers of swatches, the cotton template’s pins relocating with more consideration for the proximity of Eris’s skin. “To bear the weight of the literal world cannot be a thing done with any great measure of certainty. I’d be more worried if you thought you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“There are days I feel like the oldest man in the world,” confided Eris, half-distracted by the way Dorian’s fingertips occasionally ghosted along his shoulder or hip, absent accidents inherent to the course of his ministrations, but electric all the same. He barely suppressed a shiver as one hand lingered near the nape of his neck to fiddle with the loose trim of fabric pinned to suggest a prospective collar design. “Other days I feel like I’ve only just learned how to walk.” To think on it, Eris projected that this silly array of a limp fabric suit, brazen colors and conflicting textures all dwarfing the elf buried underneath was not an obscure metaphor for his position as Inquisitor.

A considerate silence passed, broken only by the whistling of the distant gales weaving through the vertebrae of the Frostbacks and the faint rustle of fabric. Eris wasn’t exactly sure if Dorian was even still fiddling with the seamstress’s setup behind him, but the hand settled at his neck once more, this time intentionally dragging the merest touch across the skin draping his own vertebrae. Eris couldn’t suppress the shiver this time, trying not to jerk too hard in reaction.

Since joining the Inquisition Eris had hardly encountered anyone willing to come within five feet of him—either out of disgust, or reverence, or intimidation, or some combination of the three. When Dorian had first kissed him in the library, it had sent Eris soaring but rooted him in the ground below his feet at the same time. Just to feel physical contact again—to feel something like _this,_ whatever “this” was—had been enough to remind him he was still a _person._ He wasn’t just some idea, some idol, some… He was _someone._ Every kiss since had been like a revival. But Eris worried: was it wrong of him to want that? Was it wrong of him to want more than that?

As if gauging such a response, Dorian’s fingers very carefully drew a path around Eris’s neck as the mage made his way back around to face him, standing temptingly close. Fingertips thoughtfully meandered over his pulse point, acknowledging the _vallaslin_ striping his throat to catch under Eris’s chin and guide his gaze upward. The touch shifted, never increasing or decreasing its pressure as Dorian’s fingers glided to brace Eris’s jawline. Eris managed to hold Dorian’s stare even as it searched beyond Eris’s own and drew its own intangible patterns over the rest of Eris’s face.

“So,” Eris prompted after a silence that must have only been seconds but felt like years, voice breaking in his attempt to keep it light, “you said you wanted to pick my brain.” Eris was already warm from the additional layers, warm from his self-awareness, but he felt a fresh heat trickle into his face. He lowered his voice some in an attempt to better control it. “Well,” he invited, “here I am.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, both distant and acutely present; his eyes were mercury. “Here you are.”

There was only enough time for that look to send fire through Eris’s spine before they both jumped at Vivienne’s voice, not having heard the door open. In one fluid, inconspicuous motion, Dorian withdrew his hand and stepped back a respectable distance.

“Oh, good, you’re both still dressed. I had some reservations about what I might return to leaving you two alone.”

Eris remained standing helplessly in the same place, begging his facial muscles to exercise discretion as he scolded the blood flow gathering in his face. “What do you mean?” he stuttered, nonplussed.

“Don’t play coy, darling, it’s hardly fitting of the Inquisitor.” Vivienne did not look at them, focusing professionally on a sheaf of paper and an armful of fabric with the seamstress, but the corners of her mouth were tilted upward ever so slightly.

Before they could say more, Josephine and Leliana entered the room in tow. Josephine looked frazzled as ever in the days leading up to the Winter Palace, and Leliana looked unperturbed as ever as she assured her friend and colleague that she did indeed overwork herself and that everything would be fine. Overlapping dialogue, the rustling of pages and maneuvering of fabric saturated the room for another fifteen minutes as the experts made their decisions regarding the prospective masquerade uniforms. On what they had decided, Eris didn’t know—he hadn’t been listening. He’d kept his focus on Dorian, who was notably less invested in the task even as he interjected his opinions at opportune pauses, for the mage’s own attention ricocheted between the sketches and Eris.

Finally, the Inquisitor was freed from his stifling chrysalis as the seamstress retrieved her materials and the fashion consultants appeared rather content with themselves as they bowed in parting to the Inquisitor: Josephine practically sprinting to tend to the next task on her list before nightfall, Leliana exiting at a leisurely, amused pace behind her, and Madame de Fer carrying herself with the poise of a heron, gracefully arching an eyebrow at Dorian as he made to follow her from the room.

Escorting them from the rear, Eris tugged at Dorian’s sleeve before he could pass through the door frame and maneuvered them both behind the shield of the half-closed door to reach high on his toes for a kiss. He wasn’t sure what he was going for, if anything, but by the day Eris was becoming more and more familiar with the fact he didn’t always exercise the most effective impulse control. He knew he didn’t want to keep Dorian long, intending only a quick peck, but behind a whiskered smile Dorian gave in to his own compulsion and pulled Eris in closer.

Tucking in further behind the wooden door, Dorian crowded Eris against the stone wall in a rush that nearly sent Eris swooning. He made an involuntary noise of surprise, muffled only from the hot seal of Dorian’s mouth against his own. Blood swam to his head and he couldn’t tell if his feet were even on the ground as Dorian’s hand captured Eris’s jaw and guided him deeper into the embrace. The other hand wandered and soon splayed against the small of his back to pull him forward in a sensation Eris wasn’t used to and he made another small gasp as the first hand fell to his other hip. A thumb breached the hem of his doublet and brushed skin, teasing—Eris had to rein it in for both of them, and they unraveled, breathless.

Dorian’s mouth curled, looking like the cat that got the cream. His voice was lower as he softly said, “I see you like playing with fire, Inquisitor.”

Eris was a bit dazed, or else he might have said much the same of Dorian, but his thoughts had been stirred and muddied his head like a disturbed riverbed, and he would have to wait for the silt to settle before he could process anything. This close, however, he could tell better than he could when they’d spoken earlier in the day that the mage’s face was beginning to bear lines of exhaustion, and Eris forewent wit in favor of a rather placid sentiment: “Get some rest.”

Not his smoothest line, of course, but something about it must have amused Dorian or struck some other cord that colored his smile ever so slightly different as he stepped away to bow in parting. “I’m going to interpret that as being in reference to the Herald’s Rest, in which case, don’t mind if I go and drink myself into a stupor. Feel free to join me sometime, if you’ve a mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one (1) touch-starved inquisitor please with a side of mutual internal conflict
> 
> UGH im at that point where i’m getting antsy to write certain scenes but i need to like, get there first lol


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian had no qualms waiting for Eris from Le Masque du Lion café. The Inquisitor was meeting with Josephine by the docks, the age-old contract on the Montilyets’ lives at last annulled after no shortage of political acrobatics. He had to admire the ambassador’s tenacity, and Eris’s too for that matter; Dorian wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t have eventually seceded from such a painstaking process in favor of Leliana’s more direct plan of destroying the contract itself. Regardless, Eris and his advisors had finally been able to release their collective breaths knowing Josephine would be safe—well, as safe as anyone could be when a thousand-year-old magister was running amok throughout the continent.

Dorian appreciated the invitation to accompany Eris to the Orlesian capital, wondering if it was some unspoken act of mercy to bring Dorian to a place with some blighted humidity; the mountains could only be pretty for so long before the cost of such scenery was dry skin and snowblindness. The coastal ambience of the capital had refreshed his homesickness: the scent of saltwater on the warm winds, the faint lazy splash of waves against the docks in the distance—Maker, even the bloody _seagulls_ left him feeling nostalgic.

Normally when they were here it had been on business; Dorian was happy to have even this short time to himself to simply sit and pretend things were familiar and alright. He also had no reservations indulging in the ornate cuisine: even such an informal establishment made sure to uphold the Orlesian value in appearances, sparing no garnish or embellishment for any dish, fancy pastries crafted with deliberate precision.

Of the latter, Dorian decided on a whim to bring home half a dozen—Dorian noticed the Inquisitor had been developing an affinity for pastries these days, snagging sweetrolls from the kitchens between meals, the fruit-filled tarts a breakfast favorite. It was sort of endearing; the Dalish likely partook in little by way of baked goods, seeing as ovens weren’t exactly known for their portability. Such treats might have been considered a delicacy by Eris’s standards.

It was an innocent gesture, so Dorian wasn’t exactly sure why he jumped upon Eris’s approach, sheepish about the small cake box he’d just tucked into his satchel. Eris must not have noticed, for he made no mention of it in his greeting.

“Well, it’s no Skyhold rations,” the Inquisitor said, grabbing one of the complementary sample biscuits in a dish by the service window, “but I suppose it’ll do.” He crunched delicately but pointedly, a playful smile at his lips. 

Dorian was effectively charmed against his better judgement; he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Before he could think of a reply, Eris asked, “Where are Sera and Bull?”

Dorian sighed. “They went that way,” he gestured toward the stairs leading to the upper level of the bazaar, “but any more than that I don’t know and don’t _want_ to know in case there are any liability claims to be made from whatever chaos they may be carrying out. I take it our dear ambassador no longer requires a small platoon to accompany her wherever she goes?”

“Not unless she wants to,” Eris shrugged, dusting the crumbs from his fingers, apparently unconcerned with the shenanigans of the other half of their party. “She said she had a few more errands to run before she could return with us to Skyhold; I thought maybe you and I could check out the market.”

Dorian arched a brow. “You’ve never struck me as the shopping type.”

Eris shrugged again, but with one shoulder, a little more bashfully as he quipped, “I like to look at pretty things.”

“I’ve noticed,” Dorian hummed with a smirk, pleased at the compliment that might honestly have been accidental, but the faint flush that dusted the Inquisitor’s cheeks suggested he’d heard the double meaning either way and decided to commit to it with an awkward nod.

“After you,” Dorian said.

* * *

Eris had had no real means of identifying Ponchard on visage alone—everyone wore masks, for one, and all of the ruddy things looked the same anyway—but in his periphery he caught movement within the shadows of a negligible alcove across the bazaar and decided to move in its direction.

As the sun was tucked behind the top of the loggia, a nasally Orlesian accent received him, a masked man hardly taller than Eris bowing halfway. “Ah, Inquisitor! Good, good, this is just what I was hoping for.”

“What?” Dorian’s tone at Eris’s side had lost any jovial tones it might have had just moments before. “Is _that_ why you wanted me to come along?” His accusatory sidelong glare filled Eris’s chest with ice.

Eris shrugged helplessly. “I just thought since we’d be here anyway—”

“I told you I can do this myself. I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, least of all _you.”_

“I apologize,” Ponchard told Dorian unapologetically, “but that won’t be possible.” 

“You’re a merchant,” Eris said, having shrunk an inch from Dorian’s sudden anger. “Why wouldn’t you just sell it back?”

“Do forgive me, Inquisitor, but when I heard of your… _association_ with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist; it’s not coin I seek for the amulet, but influence—influence that you possess but which the young man does not.”

“You loathsome little cretin!” Dorian hissed, jabbing a finger at the man. _“That’s_ why you were being so stubborn.”

“There is no need for insults, monsieur,” said Ponchard, nonplussed. “I am interested only in doing good business.” He addressed Eris once again: “I only bought your friend’s amulet because of what it is. I do business in the Imperium; having a birthright—even one not your own—is most useful in… _select_ situations. That is why I gave the young man so much. If he relinquished it, how is that my doing?”

The strain of tension tightened Eris’s sigh. “Alright,” he said flatly, “so you refused to sell Dorian his amulet just to get me here.” He held his arms out as if to display himself. “I’m here. What do you want?”

Ponchard seemed pleased enough to jump straight into business, the curled edges of his thin-lipped grin disappearing under the edge of his mask. “The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join, but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. _That_ would be worth the return of the amulet.”

Eris knit his brow. The proposition seemed harmless enough, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth. He spared Dorian an uncertain glance. “What do you think?”

Dorian held his stare for a moment before responding, voice grave from behind a stiff jaw, “Leave the man be. I got myself into this, I should get myself out of it.”

Ponchard’s tone was patronizing. “Perhaps you should accept your _friend’s_ help, monsieur.”

 _“Kaffas,_ I know what _you_ think,” spat Dorian as he took a menacing step forward, “and he’s not my _friend,_ he’s—”

Eris blanched. The venom in Dorian’s voice took him aback, a withering stare pinning him in place before Dorian looked away quickly.

“…Nevermind what he is,” Dorian muttered.

Eris was still looking at him in hurt bewilderment, belatedly hoping to mask it on his face as Ponchard responded disinterestedly, “As you desire. Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other.”

Grimacing, Eris pulled his own gaze away and muttered in turn, “Fine.”

“What?” Dorian’s pitch rose in terse disbelief. “You’re going to give in to this cretin?”

Exasperated, Eris snapped, “Do you _want_ your amulet back?”

“I—yes, I do,” Dorian replied, his own helplessness shining through. “I simply—”

“Much obliged, Your Worship,” interrupted Ponchard. “The moment I receive an invitation from the league, I’ll have the amulet delivered.” The merchant held an arm across his torso and bowed deeply. “It’s been an honor doing business with you.”

“Influence-mongering,” Dorian sniffed as he stormed off.

Without so much as a parting glance to Ponchard, Eris turned to follow, barely catching up as Dorian kept walking and seethed, “I don’t want to be in your debt. I don’t want to be in _anyone’s_ debt.”

Eris understood less and less. “You don’t think—”

Dorian whirled around to wave a dismissive hand, cutting Eris off. He articulated quite pointedly, “I don’t want to discuss it.”

He continued his march from the bazaar, leaving Eris to watch him go, dazed and stung as his own feet held him in place.

* * *

A knock rapped featherlight on the bookshelf behind Dorian as he sat at the work table. His posture grew rigid; he knew whom it was even before turning to face him. It had been about a week since they’d returned from Val Royeaux, and he and Eris had hardly spoken a word—not for lack of trying on Eris’s part, though the attempts were subtle and he never pressed. All the same, Dorian elected to remain verbally frugal to favor the glimmering embers of his frustration. He’d even eaten the pastries he’d meant to give Eris.

Dorian kept his back to Eris as he fought to contain such frustration, bracing himself for another attempt at breaking the silence. Dorian was less angry at this point than he was embarrassed for having gone so long without addressing the Inquisitor, and he almost felt like he had a streak to upkeep, however much colder Skyhold had been feeling. His ears warmed. The guilt encouraged him to stand and turn around.

Eris was leaning a shoulder into the bookshelf, a cord hanging from what was enclosed in his palm. “I, um…” He held out the hand to unfurl his fingers, and there it was: the Pavus birthright. “Here,” Eris said, rather unceremoniously.

Dorian accepted the amulet, suddenly shy about brushing Eris’s fingers. He stared at it in his own palm for beat, relishing the familiar weight of it behind a bittersweet haze. He closed his own fingers around it and sighed, beginning to pace. “Now I’m in your debt,” he murmured. “I told you, I never wanted this.” Dorian flexed his jaw in discomfort. His mind was racing with too much to keep up with, emotions and visions whizzing around him like a dust devil.

Eris stood straight, appearing almost eager to at least be getting something substantial out of Dorian at last. He considered his response for a moment in which Dorian held his stare; he winced to find a particular sparkle had vanished from the Inquisitor’s eyes—a sparkle he was only just realizing had been there because now it was gone.

“Will you at least tell me why you wanted it back?” Eris asked, conspicuously keeping his distance as he gauged Dorian’s reactions, folding his arms across his chest as if they were to act as a shield.

Dorian sighed, seeing there was no reason to remain mute—there never had been. “When I left home, I wanted nothing so much as to divest myself of anything belonging to my family.” He grimaced, seeing a memory in the middle-distance. “But when I spoke to my father, he noticed it was gone. He asked about it. It was childish to sell it. I love my country and this” —he opened his palm again to indicate the amulet— “it’s a symbol. It means I’m part of it.” He huffed a wry scoff, shaking his head as he kept his eyes on the amulet. “You must think I’m foolish and sentimental.”

“Not at all,” Eris said far too kindly, risking a step forward. “I understand what it means to keep a piece of home with you.”

A certain sadness clouded Eris’s features for just a moment, and Dorian at once felt foolish; Eris _did_ understand. Of course he did. He’d been just as homesick as Dorian, if not more. He shared as much pride in his own bloodline as Dorian. But perhaps it was that very pride— _too much pride,_ echoed his father’s voice—that blinded Dorian from anticipating that understanding.

“And you went and retrieved it for me.” Dorian still couldn’t shake the sense of such pride being wounded, his prospective need to defend against potential remarks from those onlookers always waiting for him to slip up. “Now I’m in your debt.”

When he met the Inquisitor’s eyes again, it was hard to face the muted hurt and confusion there. “There’s no _debt,_ Dorian. I did this for you—this was important to you, and I wanted to help.”

“That’s the _problem.”_

 _“How_ is that a problem?” Eris practically pleaded.

Dorian resumed his pacing, the bitterness in his tone more apparent. “Someone intelligent would cosy up to the Inquisitor if they could; it’d be foolish not to. He can open doors, get you whatever you want, shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say: I’m the magister who’s using you.”

Eris’s lips were parted slightly, brows drawn. “I… had no idea you were concerned about that.” He appeared to digest this for a moment before admitting, “I’m not sorry you got it back, but I suppose I... overstepped. I’m sorry, I just thought I could—I wanted to help,” he finished repentantly.

And just like that, any remnants of Dorian’s anger had subsided, the heat draining so quickly he could have shuddered. He restrained a self-directed groan—how could he be mad when confronted with this heartbreaking, saccharine _idiot?_ Of _course_ he wouldn’t have thought about that; he _never_ thought about that. To Eris this was just an act of innate kindness. That was who Eris _was_ —not some conniving, political favor-mongerer looking to build advantageous connections, waving around his power and influence to keep everyone under his thumb. Too often Dorian forgot where he was—or wasn’t—and who Eris was—or wasn’t. And now Eris was here, standing before him: a lost puppy brought in from the rain only to be castigated for getting the rug wet. Reckless and naïve as it was for the Inquisitor to pay so little heed to the impact Dorian would have—was already having—on his image, it came from a luxurious ignorance courtesy of a life free from such concerns. For all intents and purposes, Eris was simply... innocent.

“I don’t care what they think about me,” Dorian said softly by way of meager explanation, throat unexpectedly tight. “I care what they think about _us.”_

“And what is ‘us’?” Eris posed with a wry tilt of his lips, a little bitterness of his own peeking out—but mostly it was just feeble rhetoric as he cocked a probing eyebrow. “Because apparently it’s not ‘friends’.”

Dorian flinched in spite of himself. He sighed, repentant in his own right. “I… am apparently an incredible ass at accepting gifts.” He took two steps closer, bowing from the waist. “I apologize and thank you,” he said, upbeat in a way he thought might mitigate some of the heavy atmosphere and make him sound a little more flippant. He took one more step and held the amulet out toward Eris. “Would you do me the honor?”

A spring thaw took place across Eris’s features, and Dorian’s chest filled with far too much warmth as the elf lifted the amulet from Dorian’s palms and reached to place the cord around his head, sort of half-tiptoed due to the height difference. This close, after such an embarrassingly long time abstaining from Eris’s company, Dorian couldn’t resist resting his hands at Eris’s hips and dipping his head to capture his lips in a kiss before Eris could pull away. With a tiny, relieved sigh, Eris’s hands gently released the amulet’s cord and slid down to settle over Dorian’s chest.

It was a slow kiss, almost chaste in its delicacy, as if too sudden a move would send the moment running scared. And yet, somehow it was all the more intimate and dizzying in a way not even some of Dorian’s more strenuous nights had been. Eris was so _warm;_ Dorian could have kissed him harder, pressed against him into the wall, really _tell_ him something, speak to him through touch and taste without the need for words, for although Dorian knew many, they did not always prove to be the right ones, or the necessary ones, or the accurate ones. Words could be tailored; they could be woven and glazed to mean something or nothing at all, like a tapestry depicting ethics or mere jest. Words could be offense or defense, but they were weapons all the same. No, this was beginning to feel like more than just words. But Dorian would never say that.

Instead, he remembered himself, overwhelmed by such unprompted emotion, and retracted from the embrace. “I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy,” he quipped, striving to sound nonchalant in order to pretend he didn’t feel as if he was practically dripping with affection—and trying not to think about the implications of such affections. Dorian raised one hand to cup Eris’s face. “But I won’t forget this. And I _will_ repay you.”

Eris opened his mouth as if to protest but Dorian cut him off, gracing the tip of his thumb just barely across Eris’s bottom lip, insisting: “Count on it.”

Eris gave him his favorite smile, golden eyes softened and glowing once more. “You’re impossible.”

Dorian returned the gesture. “Well, if anyone is capable of handling the impossible, it’s you, Inquisitor.”

Eris rolled his eyes, playfully shoving Dorian’s chest as he stepped back to retreat up the stairs into the rookery.

Breath thick in his chest, Dorian watched him go, brimming with warm, terrifying agony. In the beginning, Dorian had immediately respected Eris without a doubt, but he also had seen him as a pretty thing worth wanting, like a fine rug or a bauble. In the beginning, when it came to the Inquisitor himself, Dorian believed his feelings to merely be about getting something, feelings that had no foothold in reality. But now, Dorian was really getting _into_ something—and he didn’t know if he would ever get out of it. Every beginning has an end, he thought, and however this thing ended... it wasn’t going to be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh i always feel itchy when i’m essentially just transcribing the in-game exchanges, which is silly bc like??? literally every other DA fic i’ve read does that at some point and it never bothers me, it serves a purpose specific to that person’s narrative, but ALAS; we are our own exceptions to our own imaginary rules. i hope everyone is enjoying so far! 
> 
> continued in Part 4! (coming soon)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @sewerpigeonart!


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